The Ground You Grew From
by She-Has-Holmes-Eyes
Summary: Where we come from might seem unimportant, but oftentimes it is the deciding factor in where we get to. However close they might be now, John and Sherlock come from very different walks of life. Both, however, can be fairly adorable at times. If you look really, really closely, you might see some kind of plot!
1. Chapter 1

Well hi :) So this is my first story...it's not the best thing I've ever written, must be said, but I'd really appreciate reviews! Constructive criticism more than welcome :) Hope you enjoy...

Mycroft Holmes sighed. He didn't often express his emotions so obviously, but while in the comfort and privacy of his own room, he allowed himself to indulge.

They were really becoming quite tiresome. He never understood how someone as composed as he could be the product of a union between two such volatile people.

There were few who would agree with his opinion- volatile would be an adjective far from the mind of any outsider upon observing the Professor and Mrs Holmes. Solemn and dignified, they were the very models of upper class refinement- in company anyway. The same outsider would have been unable to reconcile these to people with the racket currently reverberating through the entire west side of the Holmes estate.

Rubbing his temples soothingly, Mycroft abandoned all attempts to complete his schoolwork for the next day in favour of burrowing under his duvet. Another child would perhaps have been distressed, but Mycroft was well used to his parent's verbal battles. He merely wished they could seek to emulate him and gain some control of themselves, if only for the sake of a good night's sleep.

He wondered absently what the fight was about this time, but it was with the same vague, uncaring air which he might adopt while wondering what he would have for dinner. It really didn't matter; once his parents were primed for battle the trigger really didn't matter- a smashed plate would result in the same response as burning the house down. How very tedious and predictable.

It wasn't as though they were the kind of people given to something as low rent as domestic abuse. They would merely snarl and hiss at each other, like two posturing animals. He loved his parents, of course, but he often felt that he loved them in a way that was quite different to the esteem in which his peers held their creators- they were just so sweet, the pair of them, with their childish impulses and loud voices.

Mycroft toyed with the idea of wandering downstairs, to shame his parents into shutting up. He was adored, he knew that- their only son, heir to the Holmes estate. They'd likely cease their fight completely, or at the very least be quieter, but he simply couldn't muster the energy to move from his warm bed.

His mother and father's respective tantrums did seem to be escalating, however- his father sounded even more furious than before, and his mother- good lord, his mother actually sounded as though she was crying.

This realisation was the only thing that could have motivated Mycroft Holmes to fling himself from his bed in so undignified a manner.

Most children are concerned by the sound of their mothers crying. It's a primal instinct for them to be upset on hearing someone who loves them so instinctively and wholeheartedly in such pain. There are exceptions, of which Mycroft was one. He wasn't worried to hear his mother cry.

He was terrified beyond words.

As a rule, Yseult Holmes was not a woman who showed any sign of weakness. Her one emotional indulgence seemed to be screaming at her husband- a healthy exercise Mycroft actually approved of. He viewed it with the professional detachment a champion cyclist would feel upon regarding training wheels- useful tool for beginners, but a bit undignified and leagues beneath him.

Despite the fact that she was something of an amature with regards to self control, however, Mycroft's mother always vented her frustrations through anger, never doing anything as revolting as crying. Even at the tender age of seven, Mycroft regarded tears as a faintly vulgar sign of weakness, certainly below his mother, who was regarded by most as something of a force of nature.

Beautiful as she was, Yseult was quite a formidable woman, with her inky ringlets and hard silver eyes. Mycroft delighted in the knowledge that he was probably the only person who was ever allowed run his fingers through the surprisingly silky curls, feel the softness of being embraced by her slender arms- to all others she was as dangerous as she was ethereally exquisite. Certainly not the type of person to release such wrenching, keening sobs in the face of something so trivial as the murderous wrath of a man three times her size. Her young son was chilled to his bones.

His exhaustion long forgotten, he tried to force his legs into moving faster, loathing the sheer size of his family home, the distance which separated him from one of the few people who inspired any sort of affection in him, who clearly needed him so desperately...

Finally reaching the doors that lead to his parent's wing of the house, he flung them open, causing his parents to pause, mid rant and sob. He felt an icy fury descend upon seeing his father's huge fist poised to swipe down on his mother's head, and clenched his fists so tight his knuckles looked as though they were in danger of bursting out of his skin.

"Dad. What the hell are you doing?" he asked evenly, forcing himself to be calm- he needed to set an example.

"Mycroft! Go back to bed!" his mother ordered, but it was hard to focus on the insistence in her voice while looking at her swollen, tear streaked face.

"I'll go to bed when this silly argument has been resolved", Mycroft replied pleasantly, despite the vein bulging in his forehead. He took a seat on a rather uncomfortable stripy chair, and faced his parents. He found himself wishing he had some sort of stick on which to brace his hands- it would have a nice effect and give him something to vent his anger on subtly. He must look into aquiring some sort of cane, perhaps an umbrella.

Trying to smile without flashing those irksome dimples, Mycroft cleared his throat.

"So, what seems to be the problem?"

His mother chewed her lip, and he could see she was on the cusp of revealing something important. He wouldn't look at his father. He might just be sick if he did.

"My..." she was the only person allowed call him that. He tried to give her time, but childish desperation, for once, one over.

"What?"

"My...I'm...that is to say we're...you're...going to be a brother."

Whoo! First chapter, first fic...can't wait for my first review ;) And I wonder what this brother of Mycroft will be like...


	2. Chapter 2

**Hi :) I know this update is a bit late, but my life's been kind of crazy at the moment and I didn't get a chance! Pinky promise and swear on my favorite deerstalker that I won't take so long again :)**

**Sweetie and the Bear.**

****Sweetie, they always called her that. Why did they always call her that? She wasn't sweet, she'd pushed over Abbie next door, nicked a biscuit from the shops and pulled the cat's tail, and that was only in the past half hour. Sweetie only made her feel guilty, and she was going to show them by kicking the table with a size-thirteen runner until she was told to stop.

"Sweetie, we've some news!", smiled Mum. Harry didn't care. Any news they had was either scary(_Harry, I've had a phone call from your teacher again- what's this about hitting/biting/shoving child x?) _or boring, but dressing up and pretending to be good news (_the doctor's going to give you a lolly after the surprise injection today!). _They'd probably bought a new hoover.

"Yeah, what?" she grunted, still giving the table legs a good boot every few seconds. Served them right, being so stupid and shiny and, and, and _stupid._

"Well, you know how you said you wanted someone new to play with?" Daddy took over.

This wasn't so bad. She stopped her chubby leg mid swing. Were they talking about...?

Harry didn't like people. People were mean. They didn't give her her way half the time, they didn't listen, they were boring and silly. She played with kids because she had to, she'dhace nothing else to do otherwise, but that didn't mean she had to like them. No, Harry wanted something more interesting. Which was why she had started decorating the house with bright leaflets from the pound, RSPCA, Dog's Trust, the vet, anything, to give her parents a hint. She wanted a dog.

Not any dog. Her dog would be special, far better than Abbie's _stupid _Moxie, the one that always bit her ankles. She didn't want a small dog. She wanted a big one.

She knew him already- Bear he'd be called. He'd be huge, and cuddly, and he'd never be boring or mean to her, or call her weird. He wouldn't be bothered when she hugged him for hours and hours, and if she was very, very lucky, he'd swallow Moxie whole, hopefully with Abbie to follow soon after. To Harry, her parent's announcement meant one thing.

Bear might as well have been waiting in her room right now.

"Yeah!", a gap toothed grin beamed. She looked uncannily like a Jack O' Lantern.

"Well, you're going to have a new friend to play with soon! You'll have to mind him, he'll be small at first, but soon he'll be as big as you are!" Daddy beamed back.

As big as _her_? That was so cool! Bear really would be a bear! She reached forward and scratched his ears, convinced her imagined playmate had already materialised.

"Mummy, Daddy, I can't wait! He can sleep in my room, I can't wait to play with him! We're going to be best friends", she declared as she felt Bear nudging her knee.

Her parents were lit up with happiness. They'd been expecting resistance or jealously from stubborn, solitary little Harriet. But maybe this was just what she'd needed. Maybe the companionship and responsibility would calm the crazy child who was absently stroking the air. Their little family would complete, and it was brilliant!

"Well he'll need to sleep with us first, to make sure he's safe, but you can share a room after a little while if that's what you want!"

Harry frowned, but let it go. As long as she got the lovely doggy currently nuzzling her palm for food, it would all be grand.

"Mummy'll be in hospital soon, actually, we waited a really long time to tell you...we wanted to be sure!" Daddy continued.

Harry's hand froze in the middle of rubbing Bear's silky black ears. Hospital?!

"What? Mummy, why are you going to hospital? I don't want you to be sick!" Harry wailed.

Bewildered, Mr and Mrs Watson exchanged looks. _Eh?_

"Well, yeah, Harry. That's what Mummies do when they're having babies. Remember when Abbie's mum had the twins, and-"

"A _baby? _You're having a baby? Why didn't you tell me?" If they were bewildered before, the Watson parents were by now utterly flabbergasted.

"We did...were you not listening this whole time?"

But...but where would Bear sleep? There might not be room.

"What about Bear? What about my dog?" she asked fearfully.

"A dog? Harry, you know we can't get a dog, Nanny's allergic. You're getting a brother, that's _much _better!"

There's nothing so agonising as watching a child's heart break, but that's the sight the expecting couple were treated to. Feeling like monsters, they watched their baby girl sob and sob as she watched Bear wag his tail, lick her farewell, and disappear.

**That...was surprisingly sad :( My horse was sold recently, and I'm still upset, I really miss her. Guess that leaked into the story just a smidge :L**

Reviews are lovely, and they might even get you a dog!


	3. Chapter 3

**Just to say quickly, thank you so much anyone who's left me a message, followed this story or even read it! It means a lot that even four people are bothered enough to care about something I'd write. I know it's not eart-shattering, but it means something to me:) It is in honour of you that I present...**

**A dreithear le aon ainm eile...?**

It was pink. And squishy. It wouldn't stop wailing, and frankly, it was making Mycroft almost as uncomfortable as the the tenderness in his mother's expression.

"My", she smiled, beckoning him over, "Meet your baby brother."

Resigning himself to the action, Mycroft shuffled accross the room to perch on the edge of his mother's bed. Sensing he was expected to do something, he settled for looming over the gnome like thing in his mothers arms, waiting for it to do something.

"So...a brother." How perceptive. He could sense a flash of his mother's customary, wry amusement at his statement.

"Yes, Mycroft. Your baby brother. What shall we call him?"

He was somewhat startled by her request. What should he be called? It was hard to think of a suitable name when Yoda was the first one that sprang to mind when staring at the creature. Casting squeamishness aside, Mycroft forced himself to examine any outstanding characteristics for which the thing could be named.

He used a trick of his that would not be duplicated by external forces for many years to come. His mind operated like an information bank, and everything was painstakingly filed away. He merely had to submit a few keywords for corresponding documents, memories and ideas to present themselves for his scrutiny. Entering the words "red" "tiny" "squishy" and "hideous", he awaited results.

Trudging through a variety of insults, he grasped at a particular file.

Ruairi (name) m

Irish; "red one".

Fitting, and in keeping with his mother's Irish nationality- but how common. Rory. The poor thing was destined to pale in comparison to Mycroft anyway, no point saddling it with such a bland name. Anything else?

Beoga (name) m/f

Irish; small, "cute".

Frown. Small, yes. Cute, decidedly not.

Lucha (Looka/ Lucka)(name) m

Irish; mouse, little, darling one. Pet name.

No. It certainly wouldn't do for an unprecedented attatchment to grow between Mycroft's mother and the new arrival. Not that he was threatened by his postion, of course not. Women were, however, prone to irrational sentimentality, even if it was not a trait previously observed in his occasionally haughty mother. This much he had gleaned from extensive observation over a period of seven years- seven and three quarters, nearly eight, he corrected himself proudly. Nevertheless, it would be best his mother have no reason to turn any more attention than neccessary away from him, her little boy; he was here first, after all.

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So absorbed was he in his task, he actually didn't notice his mother's knowing smile as he absently burrowed into the crook of her arm, marvelling at the pensive focus on his chubby face. She did so love to observe My during these unguarded moments, when he was so lost to the stream of information streaking through his mind that the outside world fell to the wayside. He stopped trying to school his expressions, dropped the frosty shell he was so proficient at crafting, and allowed himself to feel the emotions of a normal little boy. She could even see his dimples.

One of her little boys, she reminded herself with a smile, as she felt the tiny bundle nudge her arm as though in protest. She had two now, and a prouder mother there wasn't to be found from here to the ends of the earth.

She always was quite fanciful after giving birth, she pondered. Perhaps she'd write a poem later on. For now though, her well-honed imagination, a finely crafted tool that had produced numerous critically-acclaimed books, was focused on one critical task- finding a name, a perfect name, by which to call the softly cooing baby she couldn't resist cuddling close. And why should she? She was his mother.

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Really now, brain, it's been over three minutes. Mammy might get some notion into her head that the baby has affected us to the point of impairing our facilities. That simply wouldn't do- the praise she sometimes bestowed was really quite pleasant.

Staring hard at his brother, he was a bit unnerved by how intently he stared back. Didn't babies sleep a lot, or something? Were they supposed to stare quite so intently, like they were reading his entire life story from his expression?

Come on, the lump must have some distinguishing feature. It's eyes, what colour were they? Inspired, Mycroft took a peek.

Ehm. It's eyes. What...what colour were they?

Blue, right? Babies have blue eyes, all of them do, he thought, too distracted to wonder where he had picked up that inconsiquential piece of data. Blue they were. Blue it was.

Except...except they weren't. Blue that is, or at least not fully blue. They were more silvery, but also green. So...bluesilvergreen? That definitley wasn't on the colour chart in his classroom. He made a mental note to inform Mrs Reynolds, his teacher- another glaring oversight. Why that woman hadn't been sacked long before was beyond him, especially after failing to note such a pleasant hue- deep, light and piercing, but oddly gentle...it was comforting. It was beautiful, even, more so than his Mammy's pure silver.

So. The eyes.

The only name that sprang to mind was Lea. Wholly inappropriate, not in the least because it was a girl's name. Didn't people saddle their progeny with all sorts of innappropriate titles nowadays? No, because it meant grey, grey as in sludgy paths, school uniforms and wallpaper paste. Definitley not right, especially now that the huge orbs appeared more green than anything, although god knows how long that would last- even as the thought entered his head, a shift in the stream of moonlight dancing through the window painted them eerily violet.

No longer noticing the passing of the minutes, a variety of odd Irish phrases and words popped into Mycroft's mind, proof the skill of his Mammy's teaching- not many other almost-eight-year-olds so quickly grasped Europe's most difficult language.

Athrù.

Dàth.

Corcra.

Gorm.

Glas.

Scamall.

No, no, NO! Mycroft sulked. He couldn't just throw out a random adjective and expect them to suit his brother. It needed to be something special.

Five more minutes had him grasping that thought in both hands and booting it out the window in a solò kick that would have had any pro GAA player shaking his hand and asking for tips. Screw the little twerp, they could call him Leithreas at this stage for all Mycroft cared.

Finally focusing on something apart from the now snoozing elf's eyes, he noticed a solitary sunshine ringlet bouncing around his forhead. Blond. Fine, something blond.

Fionn. Obvious. Strong, clever, a name of legend. Irish, steeped in mythology. His mother, firmly believing she hailed from the Fianna, would most definitley approve. So why didn't Mycroft like it?

It was too right, too perfect. What about him? Mycroft, a name he was fairly sure sprang from his mother's imagination. It symbolised nothing, didn't serve as a symbol of a connection to his Mammy's beloved home. Why should this little bugger get a good one?

Blond. Come on, brain, you're being ridiculous. Gold, yellow, curly, blond...

Ah. That's the one.

English, thankfully. Old English, even better. Unusual enough to raise eyebrows, posh enough to please his dad, and exotic enough to sound right in his weirdly named clan. It even meant blond. It was right there. Perfect, but not perfect enough to pose a threat. So why did Mycroft feel a bit guilty as he watched Fionn sail away, a released possibility, a brother he would never know. A brother by any other name...?

Starting young, for the first time Mycroft failed to do the best he could for his baby brother, and he couldn't feel too delighted as he met his mother's eyes and mumbled the string of letters by which his sibling would forever be known.

Sherlock.

**Ta-da! Reviews are better than hugs :) And hugs are just lovely :)**

**If you're wondering why there's so much Irishness in this, it's for a few reasons...I'm Irish, we've lost a lot of matches recentley and I'm feeling PATRIOTIC! Also:**

**Sherlock+Mycroft=Awesome**

**Irishness=Awesome**

**Therefore:**

**Sherlock+Mycroft=Irish**

**My logic is sound.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Ello again :) Late as usual with this...I'm not even going to try to offer an excuse, I'm just lazy. Anyway. Story. **

**Disclaimer: You know I don't own **_**Sherlock **_**because Johnlock isn't canon, and you know I don't make any money from this or I'd update way more.**

Harry was sulking.

She didn't do that often. Just sometimes. It was more her style to shriek and stamp and scream if she was angry about something, and rare is the toddler capable of maintaining a huff as long as the breeze stays it's course, never mind long enough to change her parent's minds. Anyway, tantrums didn't work either, and all that yelling got exhausting after too long.

Besides, the baby was here to stay.

She'd met him earlier. He was cute enough, truth be told, all sweet and tiny and snuggly, a teddy even smaller than him tucked under the weeny little crook of an equally weeny little elbow. Baby Alex, brother extraordinaire if Mum and Dad were telling the truth. Which they probably _weren't_.

She didn't want him, she didn't like him, she wanted Bear, she didn't _want _a brother **no, NO, NO NO NONONONOOOOOO-**

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Mrs Watson sighed, and let her gaze fall on the plastic cot down the end of her bed. She supposed she ought to cuddle it or something, but she just couldn't summon up the energy. Her husband gazed down at her worriedly. Surely she hadn't looked that tired after having Harry? True, the labour had been textbook, three hours with no complications, while Alex had taken his own sweet time, requiring a C-section after an agonising forty hour labour, but still...

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOO! Don't want, don't _want!"_

There was Harry off again. The new father-of-two hastened to chase after his screaming daughter, but not before picking up the newborn Alex and placing him firmly in his mother's arms. Any protests she might have roused herself to voice were quelled as she met his timid gaze, strangely at odds with his decisive manner. Testing the waters. He knew _something _was wrong, even if he didn't know what it was.

_Please? _he begged silently, _I don't know what's wrong, but you're scaring me. Please?_

And becuase she really did love her husband so very, very much, Anna Watson nodded.

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"Darling, it's not that we love you any less, it's that there's more love to give now! You're my baby girl and you always will be, my little Harry-"

"_No. _Not _Harry. _I'm HARRIET, don't call me Harry."

Oscar Watson blinked. But that didn't give him enough time to process, so he blinked again. Not really getting clearer, but he had to say something.

"But, uh, sweety, that's your name! What else would I call you?", he tried. Nope, pet name getting him naught but glowers. He really must remember not to call her that.

"No, I'm a girl, and if you wanted a boy you should have swapped me for one. And you've got one now and it's not fair that _he _gets a girls name and _I'm _stuck being _Harry _and Abbie says it's a boys name and it's not _fair _because I _can't be a boy I want to be a girl so call me Harriet and Alex doesn't get to be the girl because _**I'M the girl, I'M THE GIRL, I'M YOUR LITTLE GIRL MEMEMEMEMEMEMEMEME-**".

Pleading for help from whatever deity was currently feeling the most sympathetic (although he suspected they were all having a right laugh at his troubles), Oscar hastened to calm the wailing Harry. Or failing that, to make her shut up before one of the owners of the many accusatory glares being shot his way called Social Services.

"Harry. Harriet Watson! Stop this crying right now, and talk to me about this." Oscar didn't tend to use the strict-school-principal voice with his own kids, but this was getting ridiculous. The scary nurse in the far corner looked one extra decibel away from booting them out.

Rubbing away at her scarlet face, Harry tried to calm her teary eyes and wobbly lip.

"Abbie next door says Harry's a boy's name, and when I said I wasn't a boy, she says you and Mum must wish I was one. So I said I would be more like a boy for you, to make you happy, but I can't do it. I don't want to play football in the garden, and I don't like the boys on the road, they're mean to girls. I can't be a boy, so call me Harriet, because I'm a girl", she sobbed.

If the weeping little girl in front of him had been anyone's but his own, Oscar might have been tempted to laugh at her forlorn statement. As it was, the utter misery in her huge blue eyes tugged his hearstrings to sympathy, and his answer was utterly sincere.

"Harry, Holy God gave us to you. He put you in Mum's tummy and I've never once cared if you were a boy a girl or an _alien_, not while you were happy and healthy, because you're perfect. You're my beautiful little girl and I love you for exactly what you are. We've Alex now too,but there will only ever be one baby girl. And if you don't like his name, we'll just change it!"

Ceasing the giggles that had started when her Daddy had said _alien _in his funny voice, Harry started to think.

"Why? Do you not like Alex?", she asked, brow furrowed.

"Well we do, of course we do, but if you don't like it there are loads more nice names out there. But you know, Alex can be a boys name too", Oscar smiled, cuddling her close.

"No it can't", she dismissed with the I-know-everything toss of her head her parents knew so well. Hmmm. A name. A _boys _name this time.

She didn't know many boys, only Ben and Martin from the street. Ben was a git, he'd call her stupid and laugh at her whenever she talked to him. Martin could be okay, he had given her a hug and a sweet once after Ben had reduced her to tears, but Ben was his best friend and he clearly agreed with a lot of the stuff he said.

She looked around for ideas. The only name she saw on the wall was Fred, the hospital's froggy mascot, and Fred was a silly name.

What was a boys name?

Who was the one her teacher had been telling her about? Baby Jesus' cousin. He was good, and he was from the Holy Bible, so her parents would like it. What was it?

Oh yeah, that was it.

Harry gave her happy smile, the I've-just-done-something clever smile, and when she looked at her father she spoke with such conviction that even he had to admit that the name had a nice ring to it.

John.

**Me again :-) Before the bible bashers come a-callin', I am not in fact a Jesus freak. Young Harry is largely based on my own daughter, although she's only six months, and this is how kids where I come from are brought up. I live in a Christian enough area, and to me this is how a little girl would ct. I'm only explaining this because on my old account I was flamed to ash after mentioning religion in a story, and I really don't neede that shite :L **

**Anyone spot my incredibly heavy reference? Gwan, you must have ;) **

**Thank you so much anyone who read this far, whether you followed or not. Means a lot, and I love you :')**

**Now review or you'll have to babysit Harry. She's enough to send anyone scrambling for the keyboard.**


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